


there's nothing else to compare

by k0skareeves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bold!Sansa, F/M, Law School, Lovestruck!Jon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k0skareeves/pseuds/k0skareeves
Summary: Tumblr prompt: “Stop staring at me.”
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 155





	there's nothing else to compare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SansaRegina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansaRegina/gifts).



> to my precious gillyflower!
> 
> also, i'm so sorry to all lawyers out there if i messed up anything 💜

It’s hard for Jon to understand how a creature such as Sansa can exist.

His eyes are stuck to the hem of her dress. Baby blue, embroidered with small, delicate flowers, a bit of lace at the end. It barely covers her bum, from the way she’s laying, with her stomach on the couch and her feet dangling in the air. If he looks up, he’ll see the low back of the dress, her freckled skin exposed, a few strands of crimson red falling down from her intricate braid. Yet his eyes are stuck to the hem of her dress, and her long, long legs, and for a moment he imagines how the back of her thighs would feel under his palm. 

The more he thinks about it, the more he knows that he _shouldn’t_ think about such things, because 1. Sansa is a woman, not an extraordinary thing, not an object either, and he shouldn’t insult her by thinking of her as such; and 2. The more he allows himself to dwell on the _hows_ and _whys_ of Sansa’s beauty, the more distracted he gets, and he can’t, for the life of him, fail this exam in two days.

It’s not just any exam, it’s his bar exam, and his neck is at stake, his life depends on his success. He is a Targaryen, not by name but by blood, and that seems to put him under the same standards as his half siblings have lived all their lives. Targaryens don’t fail. _Ever._ They exceed expectations and are experts on getting what they want _precisely_ when they want it, and he too must be like this. Not out of a desire to make his father proud, but for personal gratification, since he actually plans to be a defense attorney and use that to do something _good._ And also because, in eight grade, his cousin Arianne called him an asshole on career day. What kind of thirteen year old wants to be a lawyer? The nerdy kind, who spends too many hours stuck in a library because home hasn't really been _home_ since mom passed away.

Still, his eyes stay on her bum, as much as he tries to fool himself into thinking he’s only admiring the dress. It’s a lovely bum. It’s a lovely dress, too. The color matches well with her eyes, and the fabric seems soft to the touch. There’s little of it, with it being summer and the heat this year seeming worse than has ever been, so he supposes he should be grateful for the short length and the spaghetti straps and the very thin, almost transparent material that allows Sansa to feel comfortable enough to lay on his leather couch and read a book while he takes a practice test.

She’s here to help him study. They spent an hour doing flash cards, then twenty minutes comparing notes, and now she’s quietly waiting to grade him after he’s done with the writing part of the exam, the one he has still to start writing for. Already half an hour has passed yet he’s too busy contemplating Sansa and all of the reasons why he believes she was crafted by the Devil himself to torture him. And as if on cue to prove his suspicions right, he is startled by the sweet sound of her voice.

“Stop staring at me.”

The tip of his ears feel hot. His cheeks, too, and he hates that he’s blushing, like a damn thirteen year old again, infatuated by his crush. This is a crush, he thinks, in the sense that he is more than willing to let Sansa Stark crush his heart and soul if she so desires, a small price to pay for the heaven-like experience that is being in her company.

He mutters under his breath, throat dry all of a sudden. “You’re delusional.”

She’s moving, then, the fabric rising even more, and he catches a glimpse of white between her thighs before she turns to face him, leaning on her side, head propped up on her hand, one elbow lifting her up, the other arm casually resting over her stomach. White cotton, he supposes, and his cheeks feel even hotter. The book she’s reading is forgotten, something old and heavy, that certainly would fit better in a castle’s library instead of here, in his _trendy_ living room. He hates that word, but it’s the one the decorator used to describe it, the same one his friends use to mock him with. It does seem _trendy,_ though, to be studying on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by flashcards and handwritten notes and heavy books and pretty girls. Just the one pretty girl. Just her. _Sansa._ There hasn’t really been much space for anyone else inside his mind except for her.

“You’re blushing.” She says it with a cheeky smile, her lips as pink as a blossom, and once again his mind wonders what it would be like to taste her. It’s all he did last night, at the silly party they went to, with their silly friends and their silly music. Drank whiskey, talked to silly people and stared at her, at her bum in the black dress she wore, at her pretty lips, imagining how good they would feel pressed against his own. “That’s adorable.”

“You’re adorable.”

He means to say it with a roll of his eyes and an edge to his voice. He means to say it condescendingly, means to mock her in a small way, means to lift up the walls around his heart, to regain back some of that cool, detached vibe he’s so known for. Instead, it comes out with a touch of endearment he hadn’t known he possessed, and he watches as her cheeks start to pinken, the blush carrying down her neck and to her chest.

She is the one who rolls her eyes, a gleam to them that he doesn’t miss. “Get back to your test, Jon.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“How am I distracting you? I haven’t said a word in forty minutes.”

He doesn’t have an answer for her. He can only watch the slow rise and fall of her chest, the small sway of her hair as she pushes a rogue strand behind her ear, the stretch of fabric against her thighs as she sits up and glares at him. The strap of her dress falls down her shoulder, exposing more skin, and she doesn’t bother with adjusting it. His eyes go to the top of her left breast, following their own will. He wants to press a kiss there, wants to paint her skin red and purple with his lips, wants to feel her softness under his tongue. His hands grip hard at the textbook on his lap, slightly crumpling the stack of papers sitting on top of it, and he urges himself to close his eyes, a frustrated sigh escaping him.

“Just...”

“What?”

He opens his eyes to look at her again, restraint forgotten, storm grey searching her face. There’s something there, behind the deep blue, something lurking at the surface and he’s almost sure of what it means, yet it doesn’t make much sense, because as far as he is concerned Sansa is the epitome of perfection and he is just some guy with red and blue in his veins. Purple blood and a bastard's last name aren’t a match for someone like her. He’s been aware of this since the moment he first laid eyes on her, walking around campus in button downs and pleated skirts and knee high socks, a being crafted by angels or the Devil or some other mythical creature capable of achieving such extraordinary standards, seeming to exist only to torment him with a reminder of what he wished for all his life yet couldn't have.

“You’re just very distracting in general.”

She arches a brow at him. “Is that so?”

There’s the gleam in her eyes again, intensified, the sky blue looking deeper, closer to the ocean, and he feels ready to drown in them if she so commands. He’s aware of her every move, waiting for a shift in the air, and when she rises from the couch he holds his breath, his hands relinquishing hold of pen and paper, the textbook dropping to the ground just before she reaches him. She stands between his open legs, eyes on him, a hand coming to cup his face, her fingers scratching lightly against his beard. Her palm feels soft, her touch delicate, and she moves her thumb to trace his lips, slowly, her eyes dropping to follow the gesture.

“Is that distracting?”

_“Yes.”_

He’s half tempted to dart out his tongue and taste her, find out if she’s as sweet as she seems to be, find out if the lemons she likes so much also linger on her skin, but she drops her hand to his shoulder, left one mimicking the right, her fingers gripping him hard as she lifts her knee to place it on the small space next to his thigh. Reflexively, his hands go to her waist, meaning to steady her as she lifts her other knee, the blue fabric indeed soft to the touch, her body warm beneath it. He feels the leather cushion of the chair moving to accommodate their combined weight just as she lowers her hips, sitting down on his lap, straddling him. She circles her arms around his neck, leaning forward, mouth so close he feels her breath when she speaks.

“How about now, still distracting?”

Only then, with her dress riding up her thighs and her center pressing down on him, he becomes aware of how hard he is. _Painfully_ aware, as she settles herself, rubbing against his erection. When he doesn't reply, too weak and at her mercy, she speaks again.

“Why did you call me here?”

His voice is merely a whisper. “What?”

“Last night, when you asked me to come over.” Her lips brush against his, gently. His hands flex on her waist. She feels warm under his touch, her perfume engulfing him as he remembers his palm at her lower back, his mouth pressed to her ear, their bodies standing together in a sea of blurry faces while he asked if she had plans for tomorrow. “You seemed eager to have me here. Why?”

He breathes out, swallows, tries not to give it all away at once. “So you could help me study.”

“You’re three years ahead of me, Jon.”

“You’re very bright.”

She chuckles. “Your bar exam is on Monday. Surely there were better options to help you out.”

“I’d rather it be you.”

There’s a pause, and her eyes are on his, searching. He wonders if he should allow himself to be so open, to stare back at her so intently, wonders if it wouldn’t be best to try and hide how he feels. How _she_ makes him feel. Then she talks again and he easily accepts his surrender, actually eager to give himself away, drunk on boldness and affection and the feel of her body on top of his.

“Because you like looking at me.”

“Yes.”

“And because you want to do more than just looking.”

“Also yes.”

She bites on her lower lip. His hands grab her a little harder, thumbs brushing her sides. It takes every bit of restraint left in him not to reach out and taste her mouth. He waits for her to say it.

“Well go ahead, then.”

Eyes on her, his right hand moves up, caressing her, thumb pressing on her ribs, reaching just under her breast. The thin material of the dress leaves her almost bare to his touch, and he watches her pupils widen as his hand cups her fully. She's very soft, and he massages her breast for a moment, before moving his fingers to pinch her still covered nipple. Her eyes close, the most adorable sigh leaving her lips. He presses a kiss to her jaw.

"How does that feel?" 

He's still looking at her, still watching her every reaction, noticing the flush of her skin, her swift breaths, the small wrinkle forming between her brows. He pushes down the silk, exposing her, and repeats the same motion, gentle caresses and hard pinches, just so he'll listen to her lovely whines, again and again, his other hand moving to squeeze that lovely bum of hers.

“Good.” Her cheeks are a bright pink, her voice breathy, and he feels her shiver as he presses more kisses to her face. "It feels good."

He leans back just a little, just to watch her for a moment, this extraordinary creature, this beautiful woman, the embodiment of perfection, straddling his lap in his _trendy_ apartment on a Summer afternoon. “You’re blushing," he tells her, just before his lips find hers, tongue pressing for entrance, eager to be entirely consumed, the feel of her forever stuck to his memory.

"That’s adorable.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments are always appreciated :)
> 
> come find me on tumblr if you feel like it <3
> 
> Xxxx


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